


Little Dove

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, Warging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 06:49:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Traces of the North still linger in the Vale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Dove

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Netgirl_y2k](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Netgirl_y2k/gifts).



> Written for the Summer '12 asoiaf_exchange

Increasingly, she dreams of flight. 

Burrowed under thick down covers she still feels the chill that seems to seep through every crack and crevice in the Gates of the Moon (more welcoming than the Eyrie, certainly, but still decidedly not home). But in her dreams it is a bracing cold that runs through her whole body, placing her on edge, waking her from her deadened state. The cold engulfs her but lifts her up at the same time, up and away. 

These dreams do not have the muddled edges of all the others; they are not the faded memories of blood on the stairs of the Great Sept, of wind catching at her skirts as she looks down into the Vale. These are as crisp as the air that lifts her up.

In these dreams it takes little effort for her to leave her cloistered rooms behind. She always starts in the rookery; she never questions why not the too spacious rooms that she has made her home. Vaguely, she remembers how it was when the dreams first started. They scared her more than anything else, and when she first left the ledge, first saw the vast expanse of the Vale beneath her (and remembered her aunt, falling, falling, falling; they had never recovered her broken body) she had woken with a start. In those early days, after waking, she had rushed to light every candle she could, even though the approaching winter meant that they must ration. 

Alayne thinks the light helped, though logically she knew that what she was scared of did not lie in the dark. It was the distance that she was able to put between herself and her memories that soothed her, though she still lit the candles.

At first the dreams were infrequent, and she never was able to place a finger on what caused them. They were so real, as real as any memory of Sansa Stark’s, realer than anything Alayne had ever experienced.

As they increased, she began to notice she could see more of the Vale beneath, could rise higher into the sky before her fear woke her. And as time went on, she noticed she lit fewer and fewer candles.

In the last month, Alayne began to realize she looked forward to these dreams more and more. The fear had been overtaken by exhilaration, a bracing feeling of escape. It was as if she had not realized how closed in she was, as if she was stretching muscles grown weary from lack of use. 

In these dreams she is able to see the whole of the Vale, the vast cold land still left untouched by the war. Each passing night more opens too her, passing beneath her, and she can feel her fears melt away until she can no longer remember what frightened her at first. It’s so easy in the dreams, so natural, such a welcome distraction from the tightening restraints of Alayne’s waking life.

And now when she wakes, her feet and hands are always chilled and her heart is always racing, though not with fear.

\----

In the daylight, she speaks to no one about these dreams.

It’s not so much that she doesn’t know what to say, though there is an aspect of that. Myranda would listen, she knows, but Alayne also knows the other woman would regard them as silly, childish things. Alayne is simply not the sort of girl that would place much weight on dreams, and such fanciful tales may be too revealing. And despite how real it all is (when she wakes, she can still feel the wind wrapping around her body) she’s not sure she can put the feelings into words. 

But there is a certain pleasure in the silence, in keeping this secret to herself. 

She sits at breakfast with her father, listening to him reveal too much about himself in too few words, and looks through him. She thinks of the dreams, of the weightless of flight ( _without the anticipation of death,_ she mentally adds, thinking of her aunt’s skirts). She thinks of leaving this place behind, of being nothing, of being free.

She thinks of the fact that he knows nothing of this. She smiles.

\----

 

One night, while flying, she spies a group of people.

This is, in and of itself, odd. These dreams are her escape, and very rarely is she forced to confront other persons. The Vale is well suited for that, of course, being so isolated. In her waking life she finds these silences to be queer and unsettling. In flight though, it gives her a chance to forget all her myriad identities and lies and focus solely on the here and now, on freedom.

Curious, she lowers herself onto a tree branch to get a better look. 

The group is small and weary, that much she can tell. But something about them draws her attention, and she flirts from branch to branch, keeping them always in her sight.

She wracks Alayne’s brain to see if they are expecting any guests at the Gates of the Moon, but she comes up empty. Not surprising, given that the encroaching winter makes travel near impossible and the Vale is treacherous even in the best conditions. And this party certainly didn’t look like any nobles—a large man, a boy, and two other slender figures. _Hedge Knights_ she thinks, taking in their mismatched armor and generally haggard state.

She flies closer to get a better look and is taken aback. The large man is no man at all, but a woman. A monstrous woman dressed in dented armor, but a woman still, her blue eyes piercing in the dusk. She draws closers, wings fluttering.

The woman doesn’t brush her aside or curse at her, or do anything that she expected of her. Instead she regards this brightly colored bird with a shy, weary smile, and a soft greeting.

At that moment, she wishes more than anything that she could speak. The woman regards her with warmth, real warmth, and Sansa (the name seems odd even in her mind, but good, like a well-worn dress) could nearly cry.

Instead she acts. She whistles a sweet song and takes flight, pausing only to ensure that she is being followed. The path the were on would cause them to loop around the Gates of the Moon, but with this slight change of course they should be at the seat as the dawn breaks. The other woman seems curious, and pushes her horse and her companions in Sansa’s direction. 

It’s foolish to lead them this way, Sansa knows. But when she sees them following, unquestioning, she feels a thrill. She has to try, and the woman’s warm smile comforts her in a way that she thought was lost to her forever.

She leads them up the winding path, falling back every so often to ensure that they are keeping pace with her, her heart pounding all the while. The night is ending, she can tell, the first light of dawn visible on the horizon. But they’ll make it. Sansa knows they will.

When the Gates of the Moon first begins to appear Sansa flutters about, singing with joy, and then wakes up in a cold sweat.

It’s the sweat of exertion ,she knows. She knows that this was no ordinary dream. Heart racing, she dresses quickly and quietly. There will be no time to lose now.

She runs to the window, pulling the shade back with a trembling hand. She can see the little party down below, in the same state she left them just minutes before.

She’s crying now, crying and smiling, her body almost feeling weightless. Her safety is not assured—she knows enough know to know that it never is—but something in her pulls her to trust, to believe. It’s a hope that she thought was long dead.

She’s glad to feel it again.


End file.
